


The Dark Within

by Snarkbait



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Adult Content, BDSM, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:23:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snarkbait/pseuds/Snarkbait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season two - episode one. Set moments after Frank blows out the candle on his birthday cake. BDSM themes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence

**Author's Note:**

> I used to write a lot of fanfic, then went on to other things. But these two are just far too screwed up not to have a little play. Couldn't help myself.

Title: The Dark Within

Pairing: Frank/Claire

Description: Oneshot. Set moments after Frank blows out the candle on his birthday cake. Slightly AU from there. 

Warnings: Very Adult themes. Pron. BDSM themes throughout.

The Dark Within: Chapter one - Silence 

After all this time, you've become hyper-attuned to the little changes in his mood, and the infinitesimal variations that can occur in all of them.

He's not an easy man to understand – and even harder to like. But then, you've never been an easy woman to understand, either. It's why you work. You can decode each other, instantly – even in the presence of others, two separate, yet intertwining enigmas - you're like open books to one another, while remaining locked and unreadable to anyone looking on.

From the moment he stepped into the house you sensed there was something off. He's brooding, and thoughtful. It's your ability to sense the slightest of differences in any given mood that sets you apart from all of his minions. Not even Doug can read him as well as you can when he's like this.

Be it angry, upset, stressed, frustrated – each version of him requires a certain response. Sometimes you recommend exercise. Sometimes alcohol. Sometime you prepare some food. Occasionally you instigate sex. Sex with you, another woman, another man…

It all depends on that slightest, telling variation in his mood.

Tonight is the rarest kind of variation. Tonight you sense a need for penitence in him, and it is a rare beast. It's not for whoever he's hurt. He doesn't feel remorse or regret. It's for him, whatever it is; tonight he needs to suffer - for himself.

Tonight, he needs to purge himself. Of what, you're not sure yet, but it's almost always irrelevant. What he needs, in this moment, is for him, and it's all that matters.

You've quickly surmised that the answer to tonight's problem falls into the sexual category as far as solutions are concerned, but this particular kind of sex, he never asks for verbally.

Never.

He probably doesn't even know he's asking for it subliminally, but you smell it in the air, like a shark smells blood in the water.

Punishment.

He's done something terrible to someone. Catastrophic even – and he wants you to punish him for it.

"Francis, why don't you go upstairs and get undressed. I'll be up in a moment."

He begins to resist, shaking his head, and mumbling about one of his shooter games – or, maybe how he might grab a bourbon and read that appropriations dossier that's been sitting on his desk all week.

You cut him off with a very swift and sharp right slap to his left cheek.

He looks momentarily dumfounded. Then he's outraged. Part of him is Not in the Mood for this kind of shit – but you're right, as you often are – part of him is craving something devastating. A blazing anger erupts in his eyes before dying as quickly as it arrived.

He frowns, chews the corner of his mouth and silently considers his options. You step around him, sipping at your wine before placing the chilled glass on his slightly reddening cheek.

You lean in and whisper into his ear.

"It wasn't a request dear. Now go upstairs."

"Yes dear," he returns, calmly.

There doesn't need to be any kind of outrageous or titillating outfit to make this work. He wouldn't want you to do that anyway. If cheap, whorish thrills were what he wanted, he'd seek it elsewhere. What's required tonight is precision and pain, resulting in swift and brutal relief.

You get him to strip down to his boxers, while remaining fully clothed yourself. That's always the way this begins. You start the power trade with something tangible and visible. Let his mind soak it all in. You circle him, as if you're inspecting something slightly off about him. Another tangible scene-setter to get his mind racing, and the blood flowing.

She's in charge – I am not - Is the scene you're setting.

"All that power," you say, standing behind him now as you massage his shoulders, "It's so heavy. I see how much it weighs on you. How it can crush. I'm going to take it from you now, in this instance, and it remains with me. So for now, it's off your shoulders. Do you understand that, Frank?"

He nods. You've muted him already? This IS the right answer. Yes, this will all play out perfectly.

This type of play you're about to have is the ONLY time you call him Frank. You don't like calling him by that name. You remember Frank, and he's long gone. The word tastes bitter in your mouth, like blood, or rust, but your use of it diminishes him. Coming from you, it lowers him back down a very deep hole he's been climbing out of for his entire life, and you need him low for this to work.

"Get on your knees, Frank." You place your hands on his shoulders and help/force him to comply.

You have a few new things to use on him this time.

He won't like all of it.

This play is such a rarity, but whenever the need occurs, there is a fundamental and incremental need for it to be more extreme than the last time. Pushing, and edging into new territory. It's what you do on a daily basis. Why should it be any different in the bedroom?

You collect the black dress box from the back of your closet. It smells faintly of some expensive, foreign perfume Francis got his secretary to purchase as an apology when he was unable to make one of your fundraisers last year.

You place it on the bed. You remove the lid and then you remove the new things. The things you haven't used before.

You take the first item out: a black, rubber ball-gag (That's the one thing he's going to loathe, but why should all the fun be his?) You place it on the bed, directly in front of him. Next, you show him the thick, leather flogger that's probably going to shred his back, and then the new restraints. He eyes the set of Bean Cobb Handcuffs you acquired at auction: 19th century manacles, antique, companioned with a thick waist chain.

"These are, different." Francis observes, letting them dangle from his finger. "Expensive?"

"Very." You admit, before taking them from him.

You thought they'd appeal to his appreciation of history. The little smirk he gives you as he hands them back confirms that you were right.

Finally, you remove the long, red candle – you got that from the same cheap thrill site that you acquired the flogger from.

These are the things you're going to hurt him with. You lay them out in front of him so he can get a good look. If he has any real objection, he'll tell you now. You don't use safe words anymore, but you will be silencing him, so you want him to object now, if he's got any reservations.

There is a raise of the eyebrow and an uncertain frown when he returns his gaze to the ball-gag.

"Really?" He drawls, dismissively.

You snake your fingers into his hair, form a tight grip, and then draw his head back against your stomach, making him look up, into your eyes.

"Really - now if you have any further input on how this is going to play out, you'd better offer it now, because in a few moments you won't be able to."

Your smile is quick and dangerous, his is soft and submissive. You release your grip and throw his head forward.

"No my dear, this is your rodeo; I'm merely the unfortunate steer at your mercy."

That smile and that Southern drawl… You love him for it. You really are going to hurt him, and he really is going to let you.

"Good. Now why don't you pick up the gag and try it on."

"I've watched enough terrible porn to know these things make a person drool, uncontrollably. I might drool all over your nice bed sheets."

"I don't mind. Put it on, now. I won't ask again."

"This little tiger is fiery tonight, huh? Well, be careful with those claws, won't you? – You know I trust your judgement, but I've got a busy schedule tomorrow. Let's make sure any marks left are in places others won't see them"

"Of course."

He places the gag into his mouth and you fix it securely around his head. Then you retrieve the cuffs and the waist chain that make up the restraint set. He places his hands behind his back, but you bring them quickly to the front of him. You clip the thick waist chain around him, and then clip the antique cuffs around his wrists

"Okay? Not too tight?"

He gives a little shrug. You don't think they're too tight, but you know if they are, he'll take it anyway. Finally, you attach the cuffs to the waist chain with a little metal clip.

By the time you've restrained him, he's already drooling a little from the gag. You fetch some make-up wipes, take one, and drop the packet on the bed. You dab each side of his mouth before you begin. He gives you a slightly laboured look as if to say – this is all your own doing, don't blame me.

You then retrieve the one thing you didn't show him earlier from the box. You let it dangle from your finger as you bring it into view: a tacky slave collar, leather, with little studs around it, and a matching leash.

He rolls his eyes.

You return to your spot behind him, placing your hand on his forehead, as you gently push him back against you. Then you collar him, and clip the leash to the D-ring, allowing the chain to fall down along his stomach. You hand him the leather end of it, and he takes it in his hand

"Good boy," you say, condescendingly, then you take the flogger and strike quickly. You go straight for a medium pace, rather than a soft build-up. His posture stiffens quickly.

You give him twenty good lashes then observe. His eyes are already closed. There is saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, and his back is a nice, vibrant pink.

"I'd like you to count out the next twenty as best you can – I know it'll be difficult, but you can try. Do you understand?"

He nods.

You bring the flogger down, hard, across his right shoulder blade. He groans into the gag, and glances quickly up at you.

"One," you say helpfully, raising your eyebrows, as you take his head and turn it away from you.

He offers the best "One" he can muster through a mouth full of rubber.

"Between counts, why don't you bite down, dear? It might help with the pain." You strike him hard again.

He flinches and mumbles something that could be deciphered as "Fwuckoo" but you're not sure.

You smile, and grab the collar, pulling him back sharply against your body.

"Are you going to be difficult, Frank?"

He looks up, considers this for a moment, then he shakes his head. Saliva from the gag slides off his chin and drips onto his belly.

"Good. You can start from one again. "

You begin again, keeping to a brisk, medium force. Slashing in diagonals along his right and then left shoulder blades. He gets to a mumbled nine in his count, and then forgets the ten. You give him a burst of heavy, nasty strikes down his back.

He yelps and arches his back away from the assault. You like the way it sounds, his pain, muffled and strained against the gag. He slumps forward against the bed, breathing heavy.

His back is quite raw now. Extreme crimson with raging, white welts.

"Does that hurt darling?" you say calmly. You don't care if he's in pain. You just know that he needs it.

He nods, eventually, eyes tightly shut, resisting, as you yank the leash to bring him back into an upright position.

"Well suck it up, you're stronger than this," you chastise, but with the gentle reassurance of your palm to the back of his neck

You discard your weapon, briefly, to massage his shoulders until he settles a little. When you resume, you're gentler, allowing the endorphins to kick in, flogging with a gentle, steady rhythm. You swat, and then trail the flogger teasingly along his shoulders, until you sense he's easing into it. Owning it. Taking it. Like you know he can.

Like you know he will.

You keep this up until he's over sensitive, and starts to instinctively flinch away from the gentlest of strikes.

You strike hard, suddenly, three harsh swipes - sending him forward with a loud, whimpering grunt.

As he slumps in pain, you kneel beside him and reach into his shorts. You take a firm grip of his dick; you bring him fully erect quickly, with harsh, unforgiving yanks. A different kind of groan escapes around the rubber and the drool, and he bucks into your hands, greedily, wanting more.

There's a look in his eyes you haven't seen in a very long time. Urgent sexual need, from you.

You let go of him, grabbing at the leash instead, and yanking him back into a kneeling position, before snatching at the wipes so you can dab at the excessive amounts of drool on his lower jaw.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" You say, brandishing the wipe at him.

He nods his agreement.

"Do you like the gag?"

He shakes his head.

"Do you want me to remove it?"

He nods, mumbling something completely unintelligible, and looking about as pathetic as you've ever seen him.

"If I remove that, then you're going to be using your mouth for something else. It'd better be worth my while."

He nods his understanding.

You slip out of your dress and underwear. Then you sit on the bed in front of him. You begin to undo the gag. Once it's free, you wipe it quickly and then discard it on the dresser on your side of the bed. You take his chin in your hands, and wipe away rest of it. Francis works his jaw.

"I don't like that thing," he admits, hoarsely, chewing the air to get the feeling back in his jaw.

"Then we don't have to use it again," you return, calmly.

"Thank you," he says, before lowering his head so he can kiss your thigh.

He doesn't need to be told what to do next. For such a selfish man, he's actually very good at this. You lie back and sigh, while he works hard at making you come with nothing but that vicious tongue of his.

When you glance down at him he's touching himself. You can hear the handcuffs clinking together.

"Get your fucking hands off your cock."

He complies, immediately, shooting you a quick look before he continues to focus his full attention on you.

"Good boy," you purr, occasionally tugging at the leash for encouragement.

It does not take long. Your breathing intensifies, You flush, then you come, in a triplet of silent shudders.

"My turn?" He muses breathlessly.

"Soon."

"Please?" He whines.

"No. Any more discussion and the gag will go back on. Is that clear, Frank?"

"Yes dear. Can I at least change this uncomfortable position?" His voice is back to the one he charms congress with. This is why you wanted to gag him.

"Yes. I suppose you've earned it. Stand up."

He slumps forward, and with effort, struggles into a standing position, his erection masting obviously against his shorts. You uncuff him long enough to get him down on his stomach, on the bed. You pull his hands together behind him and slip them back on. His new discomfort is amusing, lying flat down on his hard-on.

You take hold of the candle and show it to him. "Where's your lighter?"

"I don't have one in here."

You quickly snatch up the flogger and bring it down mercilessly on his ass.

He howls and bites the bed sheets, half groaning and half giggling until he confesses.

"Okay, stop, stop, there's one underneath my diary in the bedside cabinet. I think."

"You think?"

"There should be. For ambience, though, right?" He enquires, tracking your movements.

"Nope."

"We've never….done this before. I hope you know what you're doing?"

You ignore his concerns, light the candle, then sit beside him on the bed.

"Shush now. If it hurts, you can tell me to stop, and I'll consider it."

You allow the barest of drop of wax to hit the raw flesh on his upper back. It produces a squeal of pain, and he ceases his argument.

"Jesus, Claire."

"Are you going to man up, Francis Underwood?"

He sighs heavily, in an effort to do just that. "Yes. Go on. Do your worst."

You let the wax trickle a little, first onto his shoulders, then holding it lower to allow droplets to form in the middle of his back, before making a waxy river appear along his spine. You can tell he's trying to take it, now you've questioned his bravery, and his manhood, but his back is so raw. He can't help but squirm.

"That's so fucking painful," his voice is straining, now.

"Shall I stop?"

"No. Keep going. You're right. I need this."

He bites the pillow, hard, and you continue, carefully.

"Are you okay?" you ask, after a few quiet, tense minutes of this gentle torture.

"I don't know," he mumbles into the pillow, lost now, in the pain and the pleasure and the sensation of it all. You place the candle onto the bedside table, careful to not get wax on anything but him.

"Roll onto your side for me."

He complies. You yank his shorts right down, and take him firmly, one then two strokes. He rests his head in your lap, looking into your eyes, as you reach for the candle.

You bring him close, then slow the pace, and then, you drop a generous amount of wax all over his crotch.

He shuts his eyes, and his fists clench into two, tight balls behind him, as you carefully let the drops hit him, while increasing your speed.

"Oh god don't…so fucking painful, Claire."

"Beg me."

"Please," his voice breaks a little, "please, no more wax."

You relent, and then you bring him to climax, milking him until he's spent.

You leave him in an exhausted daze, restrained in a curled ball on the bed, while you wash up

When you return he hasn't moved an inch. He watches you tiredly. You tidy some of the things away, and then you uncuff him, and begin to carefully pick the wax from his back. He squeals a little with each piece that peels away.

"I love you," he says then, with all the energy he has left.

"I know." You kiss his flushed cheek.

He surprised you then, pulling you close to him.

"Francis – you're covered in wax! – you'll get it everywhere."

"It's already fucking everywhere. Relax. Throw the sheets out tomorrow; I'll buy you some new ones."

He pulls you into a tight, possessive hug, kissing your neck softly.

"I love you Claire Underwood."

You lie silently for a few moments.

"Was that good?"

"Very good."

"You're going to be sore tomorrow."

"And I give not a single, solitary fuck. What would I be without you?" He mumbles, sleepily against your neck.

"Hush now. Sleep," you soothe.

But he's right. What indeed.


	2. Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Better  
> One-shot / obscure follow up to: The Dark Within  
> Pairing: Frank/Claire  
> Warnings: Themes of violence  
> Notes: Season two. Takes place a few hours after Frank pins a medal on a terrible man

Title: Better

One-shot / obscure follow up to: The Dark Within

Pairing: Frank/Claire

Warnings: Themes of violence

Notes: Season two. Takes place a few hours after Frank pins a medal on a terrible man

-

 

     “If you could see yourself now, baby,

     The tables have turned, the whole world hinges on your swings.”

  * R.E.M




-

 

Don’t you think I want to break things, too?

How those words remain, with the occasion itself already a blip, an infinitesimal dot in the rear-view mirror of Frank and Claire.

For this heavy moment in time, where we’ve been and where we’re going is in stasis. Well, of course it’s not, but that’s the way it feels. Right now it’s just those words- they’ve sunk like hooks into me. Her nastiest barbs are always so simple and surprising.

What she means is – Oh, to be just like a man, a simple creature, lashing and hitting and knocking things over. Because that’s how a man makes things right: they bang and blame.        

Well that’s horse shit.

I once knew a man like that, and he never, ever made things better that way.

This terrible thing, it can mean less to me than her because I smashed a lamp, or punched a mirror. Caveman logic: I felt bad, so I made something break. Now I feel good again.

How dare she.

Is that really how she sees me? After all this time, does she not set me apart even slightly from the other men she’s known?

You’re reading far too much into this, Francis, let it go – that’s what she’d say, if I went and told her these concerns of mine. But it troubles me, and there isn’t a vice of any kind that can settle me now.

Her words are like warning bells, urgent and damning and chiming relentlessly in my mind - I feel lost. The worst thing of all is that she won’t let me near her now. It’s our biggest flaw, the way we fight some of our darkest terrors, alone – I worry it might be the end of us one day.

I have to do something, a play of some kind. I won’t have her shut me out like this, not when we’re this close.

What I’m about to suggest to her won’t make sense to you – it won’t even make sense to her until a few days from now. But I know what she needs.

I know how it feels when your thirst for revenge is so dry that all you can do is curl up in a ball and seethe. That’s what she’s doing now. Well in my experience if the true target is out of range, then you should pitch that shot at something else, and do it quickly. You just pick a target and shoot.

Bang - Innocence be dammed. If you can see me coming, and you’re too slow to move out of my way, then you deserve the bullet - right to the fucking head. There are always choices – I won’t take responsibility for people making the wrong ones, when they happen to get in my way.

With that in mind, I have a target for Claire – something to aim for right now, while she’s parched, and thirsty.

If she wants to break something too, I’ll let her. But before I do, I’m taking a large hit of bourbon. I don’t just need it for courage - I need to feel the burn – tongue, throat and stomach. I down it in one, and it tastes like the anger raging through my veins.

I get a little buzz going on then return to our bedroom, unbuttoning my shirt as I go.

“Francis, I told you-” Claire begins, but I cut her off gently.

“- I heard you,” my voice is soft, and none argumentative. “I’m getting something.”

The slightest little thing will set her off now - she’s going in to full lockdown. Tasers are set to stun. Anyone caught trying to break in will feel the full force of her rage.

This is a delicate situation.

The truth is, what I’m about to instigate, it’s important for both of us. She’s angry, and needs to take it out on someone. But I need to have a release too. There’s a dirty feeling I have within, that won’t escape unless it’s forced through the skin.

It’s going to sting more than a little - but I am prepared. At least, I think I am.

I open the closet. I need three things. Two from the box at the back, the other is coiled, like a dangerous snake, underneath some old belongings at the bottom of the drawer.

I place the first item around my neck and buckle it at the back – the collar Claire used on me the other night. She thought it would humiliate me – I suppose it did, at first, but then it felt right - to be truly hers, in that way. At her mercy – it was invigorating in a way I couldn’t possibly have imagined.

She owns me and I own her – it’s a love not based on hearts and flowers, but legacy. What we want can only be ours together. That kind of love binds you at the hip and fuses you together for life.

If she thinks she needs to put a collar around my neck and whip my back to remind me of that, she can, but I know it as well as she does.

The collar is a prop - it was then, and it will be tonight. At the very least it might just help to push things in the right direction. Call it a symbolic gesture.

Truth be told I can’t get that night out of my head. Maybe I selfishly want to wear this again. Maybe I need to feel what’s at stake a little more deeply.

But that’s a different thing, for a different night - playing with the idea of possession.

What’s about to take place, while similar in tone, is entirely opposite in nature. This will be pure catharsis - for Claire.

The second item, inherently more distasteful to me in sight and touch, I clip to the first – the leash that matches the collar – I don’t particularly like it, but it seems you can’t have one without the other, without losing some effect.

Just like me and Claire, I suppose.

With these things I go to her. Silently, I kneel beside her and take her hand. I give her the end of the leash, before placing the last item – an old, leather belt – on her dresser.

“You want to smash something up? – then smash something up.”

“Francis,” she hisses, “really, will you just leave it alone.”

She is monumentally pissed off with me now. How dare I not back off, when she’s made it so abundantly clear she is not in the mood to discuss this any further.

“I want you to do this. I want to feel it, the way you feel it. I want it to burn.”

“Stop it.”

“I know you liked it.”

“What!?”

This startles her, and I realise it’s because my phrasing is so appalling. She’s misread me. She thinks I’m referring to that incident, back in college, what that bastard did to her. It’s not. Not at all.

If she doesn’t take a belt to me, I’m going to take it to myself for being so fucking careless.

“No – darling, not -Jesus Christ that came out wrong, I was referring to the other night. With the whips and the chains – I know you liked hurting me.”

“I just want to sleep. Why can’t you just leave it alone - .”

“-I know you enjoyed hurting me, Claire-”

“- You can’t leave it alone, because you never can just leave a thing unsaid until it makes sense to you.”

“It’s alright.” I take the belt and try and give it to her. She throws it in my face.

“For god sakes will you leave it, Francis,” she snaps. “Go. Please!”

“You need this.”

“No.”

“No? well I think you need to find some fucking heart,” I shout, suddenly. The words crack through the air like a bullwhip. Even in the vague moonlight I can see her eyes blaze. It’s terrifying.

She sits up in bed and holds one finger up to me.

“Another word – and so help me, I will do what you’re asking.”

My smile is vicious as I whisper. “Atta girl.”

I say no more. The deed is done. Her mood is on the brink of tornado.

I kneel, dutifully, at the foot of the bed . I know this woman as well as she knows me, and after the first strike, she won’t be able to stop. She’ll lose herself in it - she needs to – and I will take it all.

There’s about thirty seconds of silence and darkness, before I hear the belt buckle clink against the dresser. Then her light goes on. I don’t look at her. I don’t think I dare. She gets out of bed, and I make tight fists in the bedsheets.

And there it is - the first trickle of fear drips into my stomach. It’s not like this is new territory for me - not exactly. My father used to take a belt to my mother, when I was a young child, and I got in the way often enough. When he was drunk, it didn’t much matter to him where the blows landed.

“If you can’t hurt the one you want, hurt the one you’re with- sometimes it’ll feel just as good.”

I goad her now, and I’m sure my words are starting to hurt her, but that’s where we differ. I take no pleasure in truly hurting this woman – I never could. Do I disappoint her from time to time? Yes. Do I manipulate, and control her? Yes and yes. But knowingly hurt her just to see her in squirm? - Never.

But she does like to hurt me, when she thinks I deserve it. Well this isn’t about what I deserve. This is about what she deserves. If I must hurt her too just to get her to do the right thing for herself, then so be it.

“Don’t hold back,” I say, with a bravado that probably sounds as insincere to her as it does to me.

And boy she doesn’t.

It’s excruciating. The second blow lands on my left shoulder, and I bite into the bedsheets. By the fifth, I’m screaming into them. The belt is brutal, nothing like the gentle tickle of her toys – this has real teeth. By fifteen strokes, my entire body is shaking. I can’t release my bite because the couple three doors down would hear me scream, and Claire often taps them for donations. But she’s lost in the violence now, like I knew she would be.

Maybe I do deserve this, because of what I didn’t do. What I did do was pin a medal on a man whose singular act of violence on my wife haunts her to this day. A better man would have put him on his back.

“Don’t you want to count them out again, and pretend we’re having fun? You said you enjoyed it last time. Is it as much fun now?”

I can’t answer her. She knows this isn’t the same thing, not at all, but she’s frenzied.

She yanks me back – that fucking leash.

“Claire, wait -” I choke out, but she is not pausing for reflection. She strikes me again three times. I bite my arm and scream into that. Maybe the bourbon wasn’t a good idea after all; it’s rising in my stomach, and peeling up into my throat.

When she’s finally spent, she let’s go of me. I hit the floor hard, only just managing to turn away so I don’t break my nose.

The air is still, but I can smell blood in it. I heave and close my eyes. The last thing this happy little scene needs is my vomit to add a splash of colour. The taste of bile fills my mouth, but I manage to hold it in – just.

Claire darts to the bathroom. A few moments later she’s pressing a cold, wet towel against my back. A little plastic bowl appears under my chin and I heave twice, before throwing the bourbon up. Tears are streaming down my face, from the puking, and the beating, but mostly the vile revelation from hours before. This is its true aftermath. It’s no longer about the man and the medal. He is but an Infinitesimal dot in the rear-view mirror. The legacy of Frank and Claire Underwood will always be my stretching view.

“Better?” is the first and only word I manage to stammer.

“It’s bad, it’s-”

“- No, it’s okay, fuck it. Fuck it all. It’s done.”

“Your back – it’s a mess.”

“So what? It’ll heal.”

I wanted her to break something, too – it happened to be me- but it needed to be something.

She wipes the sweat and tears and puke from my face, before dabbing at my brow with the opposite corner of the towel.

“Better?” I try again. She’s doesn’t answer. I try and reach up to wipe the tears from her face but I can’t – it hurts too much.

“You need to get up and onto the bed, I need to dress this – it’s a mess.”

“Better!?” I say with as much force as I can bear.

She meets my gaze, before clearing away her own tears. Then, with a heavy, forceful sigh and coldness I adore with all my heart.

“Yes. Much.”

That’s my girl.

 


	3. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, my one-shot seems to have turned into a full-on story. A short, reflective chapter. Slightly AU, set early season 2.

Claire

You think you’ll always be able to recall, quite vividly, how you felt when you saw the bruises on his back the day after. It’s honestly perverse how much shame it finds in you – not that you actually did it, but that you allowed him to goad you into doing it.

The worst bruise was about as long and thick as your forearm, starting at the tip of his right shoulder before dropping garishly down his back. It’s left a permanent scar – physically on him, and mentally on you.

You had to help him get dressed that morning, he was such a mess. And all he cared about was how he’d spin it. People were obviously going to enquire as to why the Vice President could barely move an inch without wincing. ‘Oh, just a trapped nerve ‘– he’d explain, smiling as he added, ‘Claire’s got me on this fitness regime – (eyebrows fused, a little headshake) it’s punishing’

Yes, he’d overdone it on the rowing machine. Any middle-aged, middle-class, American voter could relate to that. Thumbs up and vote for Frank. Just don’t zoom in too closely on his wife as the colour drains from her face, and she struggles desperately to smile, in an effort to confirm his story.

Now the air has cleared and, in Frank’s mind at least, it’s almost as if it never happened. What’s worse is that now he wants to try again. He’s confident that you can both pick up where you left off – before the belt, and the seething, uncontrollable rage. The truth of the matter is you don’t trust yourself.

When someone puts themselves at your feet and says you can do anything to them, it’s overwhelming. In those moments you feel so large. That’s the only way to describe it – a largeness that increases at the same rate as the other person’s control diminishes.

You borrow that power - and it is exhaustive and confusing when you give it back. It can become a greedy feeling. And of course, like any overindulgence, it can become damaging.

Oh how he changes you. Or do you change each other, each time you cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed? – Probably a little of both.

The part you struggle with now is trying to understand what he wants to get out of it. He’s not a masochist – not in the traditional sense. You’ve been reading into it a little online- not the endless amounts of tasteless porn, but the papers and the psychology behind it.

Power play when you're angry is a no-no, according to the people who share their taboos in public forums. According to the  – safe, sane and the consensual - members of the S&M community,  the worst thing you can do as a dominant play partner, is lose control. And that’s where you went horribly wrong that night. You weren’t in control – he was. Yes, he was also the one who suffered for it, but he set it up. He chose the weapon and he knew how to set you off like a firework. But you're the one who has to live with what happened - he merely had to bear it for that moment. You wonder who the real victim really was in that scenario.

 It’s so depressingly typical of you and Francis - let’s do this thing other people do, but let’s really kick the ass out of it – and shake it up until it’s as terrifying and as unhinged as we can possibly make it.

You have made _some_ sense of it through – the research has helped you to understand what Francis might get out of it. It isn’t always the obviously dominant partner in a relationship who chooses to play the submissive. It’s quite often powerful people who crave a submissive release. A way to shake the overbearing weight of responsibility they face in the real world. Although, you suppose you already had a sense of that being the case.

Why don’t you tie me up instead? You suggest, when he broaches the subject again. No, that isn’t what he wants. He wants to establish a dynamic of sorts. He’s been reading up on it too – reversing the roles now would muddy the waters.

\---

“A dynamic?”

“Yes, it’s like-”

“-I know what dynamic means in this context Francis. I just – I don’t know how I feel about hurting you again. I don’t want to.” You explain as much as you can without describing how you felt that morning. That would be unbearable.

“Well, there are other things we can do besides impact play.”

Great, he’s learning the terminology now, too.

“Impact play is-”

“- I know; I’ve been reading up about it too.”

He looks away from his book and removes his glasses. “Really?”

“I needed to make sense of it – what we did last time, and what I did.”

“Well last time was different, Claire,” he’s dismissive, yet he rubs his right shoulder as he says it. “ _That’s_ not the kind of thing I’m suggesting.”

“– I know what you’re suggesting. I’ll think about it.”

“Well that’s all I’m asking.”

Is it? You wonder. You’re really not sure these days. That fine line between asking and telling has gotten pretty thin over the years.

He kisses you on the cheek and then picks up his book again. A historical novel about the Civil War whose author is a little too sympathetic to the South, in your opinion, going off the little ‘Did you knows’ Francis reads out from time to time. The ones you have absolutely no desire to hear.

 

Francis 

 

You again?

Not much to see tonight, I’m afraid. I’m just reading this book about the war. Claire thinks the author is too partial to the South, and she’s right, but he’s got a good eye for detail, and he’s exhaustive in his research. You see, you don’t need to trust, or even like the narrator in order to enjoy a well-presented story. I can rise above such things, but all too often Claire cannot.

But this is boring you, I can tell, so why don’t we talk about something more interesting – how about sex? Boring sex can be a lot like those electronic cigarettes I’ve started smoking. It's still sex, but it’s hard to take real pleasure in it when you know there’s a decidedly more potent and dangerous alternative.

Sometimes the things you crave can be absolute poison. Either you indulge and accept the risk, or you avoid it all together. That’s just life.

The thing I crave sexually is more than just poison to me now – it’s absolutely prohibited, and to partake would be to risk everything. Now I can handle a little poison in my veins from time to time but seeking out something that will almost certainly cause death would be more than foolish, it’d be damn idiotic.

I am the Vice President of the United States after all, and I will be the next president. That means I can’t indulge in drawn-out affairs with young men any more.

Oh, don’t act so surprised. You knew. Of course you did. But we all know male politicians aren’t supposed to screw other men, especially politicians from the South. Perhaps one day they will, but not in my lifetime.

I’m not saying Claire is a prop – I love her more than air, fresh or nicotine-infused. But sex with Claire is a bit like suckling on one of those fake cigarettes – it’s better for my political health to stay at home, than play away, but it’s not quite the same. Occasionally, it stops the craving.

That’s why I encourage her dominant side to come out in the bedroom, it’s easier for me to – stand to attention, so to speak - when she’s assertive and greedy, and taking what she thinks she wants. That in itself is thrilling because sex, with a man or women – is so much better when there’s some power play involved, even if it’s just imaginary.

But what about the journalist - I hear you cry. Well that situation could only ever have played out the way it did. If she’d gotten the faintest whiff of my true sexual appetite there would have been nothing to bargain with. Besides, what red-blooded male politician doesn’t fuck the eager, young ingénue who’s throwing herself at him – to have not taken advantage would have been too obvious. It really couldn’t have gone any other way

Even still, Zoe got close – far too close, that’s why she had to go, but even seconds before a speeding train ploughed through her skull, she still didn’t know everything she thought she did about me.

TBC

 


	4. The Real Thing

 

“And with one kiss

You inspired a fire of devotion”

  - _Florence and the Machine_

 

“I’ve missed this,” you say, and it’s true.

“So have I.”

What a difference a day makes; that, and an exclusive, Primetime interview. You smoke a cigarette while Francis sings to you, considering the notion of risk, and how perilous actiivites are easier to indulge in when you’re feeling good about yourself.

You’re proud of yourself. Francis is proud of you too, there’s a rare look in his eyes and in his smile. You’ve landed a knock-out blow with one punch. A punch you’ve wanted to throw for over twenty five years.

“Let’s try again,” you say with a smile, exhaling smoke into the night air, before handing the second half of the cigarette to Francis.

He doesn’t read you at first, it’s been a long day for him, stuck in a room with Donald Blythe, but it only takes a moment for him to catch your meaning.

“Come into the bedroom.”

Francis takes two hits from the cigarette then flicks it out through the open window. He raps his knuckles on the windowsill - thump, thump – and then follows you.

-

What a day. I didn’t foresee such twists and turns leading us here, but I’ll take it. The truth is, Claire’s been distracted for weeks, but that interview seems to have invigorated her, like a woman reborn. That hack tried to burn her on live TV. Instead Claire lit a fire under the whole nation, and now she rises from the ashes like a phoenix.

She’s got a sympathetic cause now. The voters will remember that interview in 2016, particularly the undecided ones. The finer details will be a blur, but Mrs Underwood’s brave admission will have been burned into their memories.

Today was largely a fumble through the dark. I took a few wrong turns, but with Claire burning so brightly, suddenly there’s a pinhole of light on the horizon.

-

"Ready?" You ask.

"Do your worst."

He doesn't mean that. He's seen your worst.

You push him hard against the wall, left hand firm against his chest, while reaching to pinch his right nipple through his shirt. You twist hard. As quickly as this moment happens, you’re on to the next. Sending two slaps across his face.

“Get undressed you pathetic piece of shit.”

You don’t wait to see if he complies, you know he will. Striding over to the closet you retrieve your little box of tricks, your planned play will involve some old and new things. There will be no mistakes or overreactions this time – it’s time to take a different approach.

This doesn’t need to be relentless and overbearing to be successful. It’s important to focus on the build-up. Flying wild and blind is too messy. If there’s to be a dynamic, then you’re in control of it – the pace and flow and how it will all play out. In your day-to-day life, you’re an expert in self-control and meticulous execution, there’s no reason you shouldn’t carry these traits into your bedroom, if this is truly what Francis wants. He bores so easily. He speaks of a dynamic, but you’re not convinced he’ll keep his interest in this long enough for you to really establish one. Until then, you’ll play along. At the very least it will keep him distracted, sexually. There’s no room for error now. And like all men, he has his weaknesses. Sometimes he just can’t help himself.

You grab the box, take one thing from it, and then place it on the bed, making sure to keep the lid closed. You don’t want him to see anything.

You ball the item in your fist and return to Francis. He’s only halfway undressed so you slap him again.

“Are you stalling?”

“What? No I’m-”

You slap him, again.

“Quiet – hurry this up.”

He hastens, almost tilting over sideways as he reaches down to pull his socks free. When he’s done, you point at the floor. He kneels at the foot of the bed and you stand behind him. You unclench your fist, and slide the item, a black, latex hood, down his face. It has one hole in it, for the mouth, but none for the eyes. To be effective, but less severe, you’re going to need to be surprising.

“This is-”

You clip him in the side of the head; it’s not hard, merely for emphasis.

“Shut up. Don’t say another word.”

You think he’s about to say something – because he really _can’t_ help himself - but he thinks better of it.

-

This is the Claire I know and love; cruel, unwavering – cold.

To be blind to this is thrilling. She’s so worked up; I can taste the anticipation of what’s to come in my back of my throat. Then she kisses me with a possessive, forcefulness, and the taste is all Claire; lipstick, white wine, and just a hint of carefully considered passion.

The first sting of real pain arrives in my chest. Something attached to my right nipple bites hard. It’s immediately painful, but almost bearable, until she tugs, once, and it becomes excruciating. I almost reach for it, automatically responding to the pain, but I force my hand down again. I’ve barely got a grip on the first sensation when she adds another to the left nipple.

I can’t help but groan.

“Take a deep breathe, you’ve got this,” she encourages.

She trails a finger along my shoulder, before cuffing my hands behind me. I’m glad. It’s better this way. The body automatically responds to unexpected shocks of pain, and I’d rather she limit my ability to defend myself.

Just so you know, I’d only _ever_ put myself in this position with Claire. Our absolute trust in each other's judgement stretches back to before we were married.

“I’ve been thinking. If we’re going to do this right, I want us to use a safe word.”

I’m not sure this constitutes a verbal response, given what she said earlier, so I’ll choose the safer option of nodding my agreement. I doubt she’ll hurt me enough to cause me to tap-out, but everyone has limits, she might find some in me I didn’t even know I had.

Stranger things have happened.

-

The collar is new, but it looks like it’s made from old leather, finished with a rust-coloured dye. The design is hand-stamped and stitched. The steel O-ring looks like brass, and is held in front by delicate, overlapping curls of leather. It’s classier than that other cheap thing you’ve been using. You place it around his neck, and adjust it until the O-ring sits at his throat, before clipping the buckle closed. It suits him. The leash is made of strong, steel interlinking loops, with a brown looped, leather end.

The other new items, a crop with a rubber tip, and a simple leather strap, finished in similar, rust-brown leather, are what you’re going to use first.

You take hold of the leash and tug, gently upwards.

“Stand up.”

“The safe word, should you need it, is apple.” With that said, you reach for the crop.

“If you say it, everything stops, and we’re done for the evening.”

You snap at his ass with quick bursts, holding the lower stem of the crop like a conductor with a baton, until you find an easy rhythm. You imagine it delivers its pain more bearably than the instant, brutality of the flogger.

The dim lamplight casts your shadows long across the room. The house feels calm and still, with a mild draft coming from the window you’ve left open in the hall. The only sound is the slight snap of rubber against flesh, and the occasional grunt Francis emits when the crop hits a spot that’s becoming more sensitive.

You stop long enough to remove the clamps on his nipples – first one, carefully, then the other. This causes him to gasp. You continue with the crop, until there are sporadic strips of red on Francis’ ass. You toss the crop onto the bed and reach for the paddle. Placing your hand in the middle of his back, you gently guide him to the bed, bend him over it, then give him five, medium-strength thwacks. The last causes Francis to grunt loudly.

There’s a feeling in you tonight, like you want to mess him up a little. You place a hand on his lower thigh and drag your nails upwards, before striking his reddening ass with your bare hand. Then you reach up, tracing the scar on his shoulder with a finger, before scraping your nails down his back. He arches towards your touch.

-

The final item is for you to wear, not him. The hood serves the purpose of surprising him, but you’re also unsure how you feel about - it. You’re not sure you want him to see you in it.

You feel it might – to use one of Francis’ phrases – muddy the waters. Over the years, your sex-life has fallen into three, distinct categories. His, yours and the one you share. You’re not an idiot. You know what really gets Francis off sexually, and it isn’t you. You knew that before you married him. But your union has very little to do with sex. That particular issue - and it was a much easier one to deal with back then – has always yielded options. You’d agreed on how you could both tackle that problem before he’d even proposed to you. Granted, the closer you get to the White House, the more limited in scope your options are. But there is always a way forward.

The junior congressman Francis was screwing before that reporter came along, hurt you more than any of his affairs ever have, and probably ever will. You sensed there was a real, romantic attachment developing there. So you asked him to end it. And he did. And then he asked you to end yours with Adam - tit for tat.

He told you, you were reading too much into the thing with Ben, anyway. So you told him if that was true, then you wanted him to destroy Ben politically. He refused, saying it would be difficult. Citing the fallout would only bring unnecessary blowback. Maybe he was right, but you’re not so sure. He’s surgical when he’s taking someone out of the game. Ben had a small child and a wife to think about. You don’t think it would have been that difficult at all.

You step into your new item, adjusting straps and snapping clips open and shut, until it feels relatively comfortable. Then you stroke the length of the big, black rubber dick. You’re not sure if you’re embarrassed or empowered by it, feeling uneasy as thoughts of Ben and Adam tiptoe through your mind like unwanted guests.

It’s time to drown them out. You pick up the strap and have at it – giving Francis ten, measured, whacks, before you work the same area with your hand until his butt starts to quiver and he’s hissing painful gasps every other strike.

Letting him recover for a moment, you fetch the lube that arrived with the strap-on set. You squirt a small amount into your palm, then lather your fake cock until it shines. Then you stand behind and against Francis, rubbing the cock against his butt-cheeks, forcing a hand into his back, and smushing him into the bed. His red ass clenches with the contact. He turns his head. You think he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to worry – you’re not going to fuck him there – you’ve not prepared for anything that ambitious. It would get far too messy.

“Get back down here, on your knees.”

He’s still for a moment, then does as you ask, shuffling blindly onto the floor, and settling with his back against the bed. You stroke the length of the cock, before placing the head of it to his lips

“Open your mouth.”

He does it.

“Wider,” you demand.

He does that too.

You thrust in about half your length, then slide out again, taking his head with both hands before you do it again, and again, increasing the amount, gradually, until he starts to gag. When he does, you pull back and slap him twice in the face.

“Take it like a man,” you say, harshly. Suddenly you want him to see, you really do. You want him to watch you while you fuck his face. You pull the hood from his face in one quick swish. He squints, blinks, and then gets a good, long look at what he’s up against.

“Either you put in a bit more effort, or I’m going to force it down your throat.”

You grab fistfuls of his hair, and he takes as much as he can into his mouth. Occasionally you thrust in deep, just to hear him gag and splutter, giving him more than he can handle. It makes the o he’s formed around your toy into a capital letter, before you slide out and make it small again. You do this until his eyes start to water.

He’s rock hard.

You pull him away from the bed with one, downward yank of the leash before collecting the key to the handcuffs from your nightstand. Kneeling beside him, you reach to uncuff him, then retake your place above him again.

“Continue.” You place the cock against his lips, and he dutifully resumes, yanking at his own cock now he’s free to do so. Deep, muffled groans escape around your slippy, fake, fuck-toy, while you continue to screw his face as he finishes himself off.

He has the good sense to spill his excitement into his own hand, rather than on the bedroom carpet – a slight act of decorum amidst all the debauchery.

He sags back against the bed, breathless and wet-lipped as he looks at the little mess in his hand.

“You should go and shower.”

You pull your hand along the cock, before flicking lube and saliva onto his chest.

He looks a little bit dazed, striped and spent as he drags himself up on his feet.

When he’s in the shower, you collect everything you’ve used tonight, adding in a little squirt-bottle of sanitizer. You dump it all in the sink and tell him to clean everything properly when he’s finished. You return the bedroom to a state of almost immaculate perfection, and then collect your night things. When you go in to use the shower he’s dutifully cleaning all your toys in the sink.

“I might just make a few calls before bed,” he regards you in the bathroom mirror, “I’ll go in the study.”

“No, you can do that in here, I’ve got some things I need to look over, anyway.”

“Sure? Well okay – it might be a late one, though.” He’s straight back to business, even while he’s soaping a thick, fake cock in the sink. You kiss his shoulder, and then step into the shower.

“That’s okay. I don’t feel tired anyway.” The day, and all its events, have energised you, you feel like you could run ten miles. Work is the only thing that will settle you down.

He puts everything away except the collar – he brings that over to the bed with his cell phone and his laptop under his arm.

“I like it,” he says, dropping it on the bed, while placing the laptop on the nightstand, and his phone on top of that.

“Slightly less garish than the other one, I suppose,” you say.

“I suppose.”

You observe him for a moment, then pick up the collar, and place it around his neck.

“How about you wear it for bed, that way you can get used to it.”

He bats your hand away, gently, then leans over and kisses you. “Do you want me to, you know?”

He finds it difficult to satisfy you sexually at the best of times, never mind when he’s already had his fun. You think that you’d get very little out of it.

“I’m good. Make your calls.”

And you are good. You really are. A slowly receding feeling of largeness fills you more completely than your husband ever could. You playfully attempt to collar him again - Mr Vice President - while he distractedly speed-dials the House Majority Whip, and reaches for his laptop.

“Jackie- how are things looking - hang on a second - ”

A lazy, half-smile plays on his lips as he places the phone against his chest, and in his best Southern drawl says, "Apple."

You take the collar away again. Everyone has a hard limit. Everyone. He doesn't like to mix business and pleasure, not at this critical stage.

“At some point, please get some sleep.”

He nods, and you mouth ‘Good Boy’ at him before you settle into your own work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Dynamic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Dynamic  
> Continuation of: The Dark Within  
> Pairing: Frank/Claire  
> Warnings: BDSM. Themes of violence. NSFW. PG18  
> Notes: Season two. Takes place a few days before a Civil War re-enactment.

 

Chapter five

 

Dynamic

 

Your work would have been finished hours ago, but Francis has been barging in and out of the bedroom since he got home. He's been constantly asking you where things are, as he packs for a trip.

 

You’d come up here to avoid the chaos and chatter that usually follows him home. These are the things you’ve learned about his day at work: He’s got to be in Virginia in two days' time for a Civil War re-enactment. He doesn’t want to fucking go to Virginia. He doesn’t see why he should fucking go instead of the president. He cannot find his fucking phone.

 

"Why don't you do this tomorrow?" You glance distractedly away from your laptop. Again. "It's your day off; you’ll have plenty of time."

 

"Because I'd like to actually have a day off - remember those? Remember what they were _like_?" He snaps.

 

"Do you think you'll get a day off when we're in the White House?" You challenge, calmly.

 

"Exactly! I'd like one or two before that happens. Have you seen my phone?"

 

You regard him, briefly.

 

"You're holding it in your hand."

 

“The _other_ one!"

 

He says this in a way that suggests you should know this small detail, and that you're a fool for not knowing.

 

You had both agreed to set some time aside this evening to work on your "Dynamic", considering you both have downtime tomorrow. You’re doubtful it’s going to happen now, and it frustrates you a little. You knew this would happen. The Hill is Francis’ priority, and you accept that, of course you do. But he was the one who said you should spend some time together tonight.

 

For once you’d like _him_ to be in control of this.  It was his suggestion after all – but he’s not stupid. If you’re in control it leaves all of the planning to you.

 

"Why is _my_ attendance required at this fucking thing anyway? Surely it should be the president."

 

He’s said this already. Twice.

 

You're not sure if it’s a question or a statement, or if it's even directed at you at all, because he's already out of the room again. A few moments later he returns, then he’s rifling through your things on the dresser just outside the bedroom.

 

“What are you looking for, now?” You ask. His irritated energy is vexing.  

 

A phone bleeps, then he’s shouting at someone (Probably Doug), sounding off about 'That Fucking Asshole' (Probably Raymond Tusk), followed by some discussion about a Chinese diplomat.

 

You knew what you were getting into when you married him, but sometimes you wish he’d direct that energy at you; just pin you against the wall and screw brains out. But here you are, left with the burden of plotting out the finer details of your (increasingly adventurous) sexual set-pieces so you can simply _have_ a sex life; or at least one that involves you both being in the same room at the same time.

 

When he returns to the bedroom five minutes later he’s finally quiet, observing the hard-to-miss addition that’s been in here since lunchtime. It’s as if he’s only just noticed it, despite the fact it’s bigger than he is. You asked Meechum to haul it upstairs: Francis’ free standing punch bag. All you wanted was the frame but you told Meechum to bring the bag up too, for appearances. It hasn’t seen the light of day since you moved in here.

 

Francis places one hand on his hip, and points with the other.

 

"What's that doing up here?"

 

"We had plans this evening, remember?"

 

"We did?" He walks over to the steel stand, batting at the chain hanging from it. The bag is placed far enough away to suggest _it_ won’t be needed.

 

"You're planning to work-out up here?"

 

He looks confused – he thinks he’s agreed to go jogging with you this evening, or something of that nature.

 

You give him a look that suggests he should have another guess. The tension begins to seep from his posture. He's all intrigue, now. Then he’s got it.

 

“On me?”

 

"Isn't that the point of this "dynamic" you keep talking about?"

 

"It's a bit _dramatic_."

 

You close your laptop and place it beside you. “What’s wrong with a little drama? Besides, you could always hang the bag up and use it. You could picture Raymond's face on it, if you prefer?"

 

"Don’t tempt me," he growls, "No, I think I like your idea more."

 

"You do?"

 

"I do."

 

“Good.”

 

-

 

You clear your work-related clutter from the bed, and put most of it into the study. When you return Frank is already shirtless, and dumping every toy and device you’ve collected so far onto the spot your work just vacated.

 

You close the bedroom door and lean against it, wondering if he’s anywhere near calm enough for this tonight.

 

He casts a sideways glance at the stand, reaches down and picks up the collar, along with the leash, then holds them both out to you.

 

“You know what to do with them.”

 

He dutifully attaches the collar around his neck, chin down, as if he’s putting on a tie for work. When that’s done he clips the leash on and meets you at the door so he can place the end of the leash in your hand. For some indescribable reason, you find it to be quite a sweet gesture. It’s a shame sweet isn’t on your agenda this evening – it would have scored him some points.

 

There’s something about his energy, and the way he can barely keep still that troubles you. He’s restless and preoccupied – bristling with nervous tension.

 

"Can we keep in mind that I have that civil war thing day after tomorrow?"

 

"Uh huh.” You’d struggle to forget about it, now.

 

Stepping around him, you tug the leash gently so he follows you. You motion to the spot between the stand where the bag would go, if it was being used for what it was actually designed for. He takes his position without comment.

 

You pick up the padded, leather restraints. The metal cuffs you normally use are not practical for securing him to something that will need to bear his weight.

 

Cuffing him is easy, he’s so eager to deliver himself into your captivity. It’s in securing his hands above his head that proves a challenge. You reach up on tip-toes, trying to clip the link in the restraints, to the empty chain at the top of the frame.

 

When you finally have his hands locked above his head, you slide your palm down his stomach. A gesture that affirms _You’re all mine now._

 

“Nervous?” You ask.

 

“Should I be?”

 

You think he should.

 

You unclip the leash and toss it on the bed. You won’t need it, he’s staying right there for the duration of your play tonight. You take each side of the collar and adjust it so the clip rests at his throat -  straightening that tie properly. Little actions to reinforce that you’re in control now, and that you can do anything you want.

 

"I like being yours," he says, "like this."

 

“You might reconsider that statement in a moment.”

 

He laughs easily. “Are you trying to scare me?”

 

You match his humour, smiling sweetly. “Oh, trying is a waste of energy, dear. Do, or do not, right?”

 

“I think it’s actually ‘Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try’, if you’re attempting to quote Yoda.”

 

“Well thank you for putting me straight on that.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“Does he have anything that covers ‘I’d rather show you how much you’re going to regret provoking me’?”

 

“Um-” he pretends to think, “how about ‘Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering’?”

 

“When did you become such a nerd?”

 

“I’m just good with quotes.”

 

“Bravo.”  


You’re happy to keep things light for now, but you suspect that he will never, ever, bound so eagerly into this again. He thinks this is all a happy game, but tonight you aim to make him respect what he’s really been asking of you lately. To do this, to engage in this kind of play, and be the one who must plan every single detail.

 

"I’m going to make you feel it tonight,” you say, biting his lip, hard enough to make a point, but not enough to leave a mark. “I hope this is really what you want.”

 

"It is."

 

"I think you‘re starting to like the pain," you say, twisting at his nipples before lightly scraping your nails up and down his sides.

 

"I'm…not sure,” arching upwards a little at the sensation, “It's hard to explain."

 

You reach around him, with your breasts press against his chest as you sink your nails into his back and pull downwards

 

His eyes shut, and he moans.

 

“You’ve never struggled to explain a single thing in your life, dear.”

 

“This is different.”

 

Is it? You don’t think so.

 

"It's not the pain,” he explains, “It's - taking it, from you, for you - I like, that."

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Finally he’s stumped. His none-answer finds him where you want him to be: a little on edge, less confident and a bit more cautious.

 

You leave him, returning to the bed so that you can examine your toys. You’re building up quite the collection. You run a hand over the items, picking up a small crop, before placing it back down, and feigning indecision.

 

"You like hurting me, don’t you?"

 

"Sometimes."

 

You admit this as you pick up a different crop. You like this one, it has a nice whoosh to it as it’s flying through the air. You pull the little rubber end backwards before letting it go. It twangs satisfyingly. Then you discard it, choosing a paddle and tapping it against your palm.

 

"Why?"

 

"Because sometimes you need it; I'm a sadist - is that what you're trying to say?"

 

He snorts out a laugh. The sound irritates you. There's something smug about it.

 

"Oh, I think we both know you're a sadist, Claire - is that something you've been struggling to accept since we've been doing this?"

 

"Perhaps, and by that logic that makes you a masochist. What’s your point?"

 

"My point is that you _don't like_ to admit that you enjoy this. But after all we've done, does it matter? You're not selflessly martyring yourself here you know? You enjoy it.”

 

You turn to face him again. He does look smug. You're not quite sure what he's getting at, or why he's trying to start an argument. Playing this way normally settles him. He's usually docile and quiet, but not tonight. There’s a little fire in his belly that just won’t die down.

 

Truth be told you’d prefer that he stiffened at the simple idea of fucking you. Truth be told you wish it were you up there right now, taking it from him. But he’d be putting in all the effort then. No it takes the kind of effort _you’re_ putting in to get him even halfway there. Hell yes you’re fucking humoring him. But then, to say _that_ out loud would be crueller than the things you’re about to do to him physically.

 

"Okay, I enjoy hurting you. Now admit that you enjoy the pain when I do."

 

"It's not quite that simple. Like I said, it's hard to explain."

 

Even now, while he is completely at your mercy, he's trying to set some sort of double-standard. You can’t help but laugh at the very idea of what he’s trying to say. "I'm a pervert, but you're not. Is that it?"

 

It’s a shame. At no point does he consider the possibility that you’re trying to establish something that you can both have. Something private you can enjoy together – so you’re not resigned to separate bedrooms and secret phone calls for the rest of your lives; that you’re trying to smooth over the one imperfection in your otherwise flawless marriage.

 

"Would you enjoy it more if it seemed like I was enjoying _myself_ more? Or do you just need to hear me say yes, sometimes I enjoy hurting you, and no, I’m not trying to fill in some way, for all of the boys you can't fuck anymore."

 

That one stings, god you tried to stop it from leaving your mouth but it flew right out before you could catch it. It shows in his eyes, too, so he looks at the floor, attempting to conceal the discomfort the comment causes in him. That particular issue has always been difficult for him to discuss. Even with you. Even when you’ve been screwing the same man, at the same time, it’s as if it never happened the morning after.

 

You return to him, moving in close so you can tilt his chin upwards and make him look at you.

 

"I enjoy this too, okay. Do you believe me?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Good."

 

And with that, you place a hand on his shoulder and bring your knee into his balls as hard as you dare – which is definitely hard enough. He lets out a very loud, drawn-out groan, before doubling up as best a man can while being forcefully held upright.

 

You turn his face away so you can speak into his right ear. "Because if this was all for you, I wouldn’t have enjoyed that nearly as much as I did."

 

His expression – or what you can make of it as his chin drops onto his chest - is a twist of surprise and agony. He gasps to breathe through what you imagine is a burning rock of discomfort, expanding upwards from his groin into his stomach. It takes a long time before his capacity for speech returns. The only sound in the room is the little clock on your nightstand, counting out time, and the sound Francis makes as he learns how to breathe again.

 

He’s bending as far down as the restrains will allow him to, sucking in oxygen as if it might suddenly run out.

 

You think he'll settle down now. "Are you ready to play nicely?"

 

"If – if-” he splutters, “If you do -that again - I will - will probably throw up."

 

"Then throw up."

 

There’s a feeling of largeness filling you. He still thinks this is a game you’re playing for his benefit. To please _his_ needs; to soothe _his_ problems. Tonight, he’s going to learn what he’s truly asking for when he tells you to push him; when he tells you to not hold back; when he gives you permission to hurt him, _because he can take it_.

 

Tonight he’ll see what comes of asking this of you. Neither of you have time for silly, childish games. If he wants you to play the dominatrix, then you will. If he wants you to invest in a dynamic and play the role, then you will rise to the challenge. And more than that, this time, you’re going to get something you want out of it too.

 

You take a handful of his hair and yank him back into a standing position. He complies, awkwardly shuffling and whimpering as you force him upright.

 

You let him recover fully before you continue. When his breathing normalises you decide on what you need now, and return to him with the gag he dislikes so much. You think he's earned it, with his sudden, argumentative bullshit. If he was trying to get you worked up too, he's succeeded.

 

"Sorry, it's going to be necessary. Open wide."

 

He shakes his head, but he’s not being playful – he is pissed.

 

"Do you want Meecham, and the rest of the secret service to hear us? - open your mouth."

 

"Fuck Meecham."

 

"Oh, I'm sure you'd like to -”

 

"- Oh Fuck _You_ ," he spits. "What? - where is this coming from?"

 

You'd feel better about this little stand-off if he was smiling, just a little, but there's nothing but raw anger there.

 

"Let's not pretend I'm the only one who likes to fuck other men," he rages, nastily. “I just avoid causing national scandals when I do.”

 

“Settle down.”

 

“What a fucking mess that was.”

 

No, this won’t do. You reach upwards in an effort to release him. He's too stressed out – and you’re starting to feel real anger. You can’t allow that. You will be calm and in control, or you will not do this. You will never do this on his terms again. He wants you to hurt him because he’s pissed off at Tusk and he doesn’t know how else to deal with it. You sense he’s seeking a devastating distraction, but you’re not getting trapped by him again.

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"We can't do this if you're angry."

 

"If _I'm_ angry!? Jesus, Claire, _I'm_ not angry. You just kicked me in the fucking nuts!"

 

"Like hell you're not angry."

 

"Claire, wait."

 

Desperation begins to replace the antagonism. 

 

"Wait, please? You're right. There's so much ahead of us now. My mind is chaotic. I'm under a lot of pressure."

 

"We shouldn't do this if you're not in the right frame of mind."

 

"I am,” he's pleading and urgent, “I need this.”

 

You think about this for a long moment. You agree, he needs something to settle him down. But why does he always have to try and push you over the edge, and make things so much more difficult than they need to be?

 

Eventually you let go of the chain and leave him restrained.

 

“Franicis, this is what you wanted. This is what you asked for. Now I promise you’re going to enjoy some of what I have planned tonight, but some of it is going to be unpleasant, because that’s the _fucking_ point.”

 

“I know.”

 

“If you can’t settle in to it, then we should stop.”

 

“I’m okay. I’m ready.”

 

"Then open your mouth."

 

He complies instantly this time. You place the gag in. It should have been the first thing you did.

 

You pick up the first item that comes to hand - a paddle - and then take your position behind him. You reach around for the zipper on his trousers and then yank the last of his clothing down to his ankles. You think it's a little degrading. Forcing a hand into the middle of his back and kneeing his legs apart so he's in a position that best suits you, not him . You go to work on him. And yes, you do like doing it. It does feel good. Observing the way he reacts to your touch, and the pain, all the while assessing how well he's coping. He'd only ever let you do this to him, and that in itself is intoxicating. You don’t care what it makes you – a sociopath, a sadist – you just know that is feels right.

 

The tension in his posture only gets worse as you hit him; throwing the paddle downwards so you’re just skimming his ass, before side-swiping hard across it. Every blow that lands causes some reaction – a twitch, a mild groan, a muffled squeal. You mix in some gentler smacks with the palm of your hand, so he can settle in, before resuming with the harder paddling. The skin on his ass pinks under your work. You paddle until there are two red circles on each side.

 

When you stop, and gently rub the abused area he flinches away at first, until he realises the beating has stopped.

 

You give him a moment to relax, discarding all of your toys. You won’t need anything for your next trick. This part will be all for you, because this is how you’re going to get what you want.

 

This is going to be a defining moment in your “dynamic”.

 

By the end of tonight it will have been firmly established, either that or you’ll never do this again, and he won’t talk to you until he’s back from his trip.

 

You stand in front of him, taking his limp cock gently in your hand, stroking nicely, letting him think all the good stuff is about to kick in. Then you grab his balls and squeeze a little, then a little more, then a lot.

 

His fists clench and he squeals into the gag, when you squeeze a bit tighter still, his squeal morphs into a muffled scream. You let go, briefly, and then do it again, and again, until you think he's pleading for you to stop. His eyes certainly say it even if his words can’t reach you.

 

His head drops to his chest and he sucks in air through his nose.

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

He nods desperately.

 

“Then I’ll ungag you and you can use the safe word.”

 

He shakes his head. Oh no, of course he won’t do that. Not yet.

 

You squeeze again. Trapped squeals force themselves out any way they can along with little droplets of spit. You keep squeezing, and then stopping, and then squeezing again. You do this until his whole body starts to shake.

 

His chin is wet with saliva. You fetch a towel and wipe him down, chest and chin as he chews at the gag in an effort to stop the drooling. It only makes things worse. He looks anywhere but at you. You decide to take pity on him, finally, and remove it.

 

The little moans that had been trapped are finally free. They sound like victory.

 

"I'm sorry," he whimpers.

 

“You have no time for that word, Francis. Besides, you’ve done nothing wrong. I wanted to do that. I’m a sadist, remember? And even though you’re in a great deal of pain, you haven’t said the safe word. So what does that make you, Francis?”

 

“A masochist,” he admits. Finally.

 

“Shall we just conclude that we’re both a little fucked up, and forget about the labels?”

 

He nods his head. You think you could get him to admit to anything right now, just to stop you putting your hands between his legs again.

 

“When you ask something of me, I deliver it fully. Is this not what you asked for?”

 

You cup his balls in your hands, gently.

 

“Please,” he pleads. “Please don’t - don’t do it again.” He shakes his head as he speaks, trying to emphasise his words anyway he can, all the time searching your eyes for a sign of mercy, while pleading for it with his own.

 

“Right now you’re being pathetic, do you agree?”

 

“Yes,” he admits eagerly; _anything to stop you hurting him there again._

His thighs and his stomach are quivering.

 

“I want you to take one more then I’ll be very nice to you. Does that sound like a deal you can live with?”

 

“Please, I can’t-”

 

“- Yes you can -”

 

He shakes his head furiously.

 

“Okay, if you won’t man-up, I want something in return.”

 

“Anything.”

 

You think this might be the most genuine promise he’s ever made. You let go of his balls.

 

“Tomorrow night, we’re going to do this again. But I want you to be in control for once. I want you to understand the weight of this, because you seem to think it’s a game, and while it can be – sometimes it’s terrifying.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Deal?”

 

“Deal.”

 

“You know, there’s only so many times you can ask for something you deserve before you’ve just got to go ahead and take it. Do you know who said that one?”

 

He nods. Of course he does.

 

“Yes, that one’s yours darling.”

 

You’re good with quotes too, and that’s a particular favourite of yours.

 

TBC…

 


End file.
